


he would always win the fight (bang, bang!)

by piagnucolare



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Deepthroating, Emetophilia, Gun Kink, M/M, Mind Break, but not gross enough, calling him that makes me think of peeps in the chili, i can have a little emeto. as a treat, not beta read or anything but grammarly did her best, ok so basically . peeps gets blackmailed (?) into sucking dick and also gun, this is so gross!!!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23906983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piagnucolare/pseuds/piagnucolare
Summary: Guns have their benefits. Quentin’s more inclined to use persuasion and illusion, but he’s not opposed to a good bullet to get the job done. It gives him the element of surprise, an advantage of sorts. Too many heroes think that their opponents will play fair. Peter Parker is no exception.
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 32
Kudos: 130





	he would always win the fight (bang, bang!)

**Author's Note:**

> think bridge scene but make it eviler and horny
> 
> warnings for non-con, vomit, blood, injury, and general icky stuff 
> 
> please don’t read this if anything like that upsets you :(
> 
> title from bang bang by nancy sinatra because gun

_Every villain should invest in a gun_ , Quentin thinks. _As a last resort, or maybe as a first resort._

It’s an easy fix to a big problem. Honestly, he’s kind of surprised that more bad guys don’t just go crazy with the artillery— it’s much easier to purchase than all that black-market alien shit that the Vulture peddles. Like, for fuck’s sake, he just bought his Beretta whatever-the-fuck in some little shop in Prague. The vendor just asked for I.D., and when the nonexistent _Miklos Přecechtěl_ ’s background check came up clear, he was ten-thousand _korunas_ lighter and one gun heavier. Easier than meeting under a bridge in the middle of the night, that’s for fucking sure.

Fucking _Vulture_. But he digresses.

Guns have their benefits. Quentin’s more inclined to use persuasion and illusion, but he’s not opposed to a good bullet to get the job done. It gives him the element of surprise, an advantage of sorts. Too many heroes think that their opponents will play fair. Peter Parker is no exception.

“Beck!”

Quentin turns to see Peter at the opposite end of the bridge, unmasked and looking every bit as angry as he should. He’s got a bloody nose, but it suits him— it’s a reminder of how vulnerable he can be, if you hit him where it counts. Plus, Quentin knows that he’s partially, if not wholly responsible for that bloodshed, and it sends a thrill down his spine. He’s barely hurt Spider-Man— not counting the train— but he’s already hooked. There’s just something so satisfying, so _erotic_ about making him cry. 

He’d never considered himself to be a sadist, but there’s a first time for everything. How could he not want to hurt the kid, when Peter’s hurt face looks so cute? God. It makes him feel like the accusations against him were kind of right, because wanting to fuck something so hurt and helpless must fall under ‘unstable behavior’.

And wow, what an admission. He actually wants to fuck Spider-Man. Maybe seeing him like this— beaten and betrayed— has got him all riled up. But more likely than that, he’d subconsciously wanted to fuck his naïve little brains out the moment they’d met in Venice. He was just too caught up in playing the good guy to do anything about it. But now?

Now it’s fair game.

“Peter Parker! Good to see you,” he says, stepping closer to him, a wide grin on his face. “Hope you’re not mad about Berlin.”

Something flickers across Peter’s face, just for a second, but Quentin catches it anyway. _Fear._ His grin curves into something more sinister. To be fair, he did trick him into stepping in front of a train. At that point, he was still certain he’d win— now he’s not so sure. It’s a shame, watching all his hard work be undone by one shitty little brat. It seems to be a common theme in his life. Peter really is Tony Stark’s protégé.

“Give EDITH back,” Peter shouts, his voice cracking. He sounds so petulant, like Quentin stole his favorite toy or his seat on the swings. It’s just too good— he might as well have written everything out himself.

“You want your glasses back?” He chuckles, taunting him with a grin. “Come and get ‘em.”

He’s got his illusions at the ready, the drones projecting an empty void where the bridge should be. Peter’s gotten sharper though, because he manages to make it to him much faster than in Berlin. Granted, he already knows the layout of the bridge, but still. His senses are more acute.

The closer he gets, the more obvious it is that the show’s over. Quentin’s 99% sure he’s not going to win, at least, not anymore. Fury knows about the illusions, Stark’s head of security knows about the illusions— hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if all of London knows about the illusions. 

He’s got one more trick up his sleeve though— a trick worth ten-thousand Czech _korunas_. If he’s going to go, he might as well go out with a bang, right?

Peter’s in front of him faster than he expected. He’s only got one chance to make this work— _please fucking work._

“You lose, Beck,” Peter says, out of breath but looking triumphant. 

“I guess so,” he replies, insincerity evident in his voice. _3, 2, 1._ Right on cue. “Or not.”

The drone behind Peter drops its cloaking, shooting and missing him by a wide margin. That’s fine though— it’s only a distraction after all. A distraction that works perfectly. Peter turns around, startled, and that’s all it takes.

Quentin grabs him by the neck, placing him in a chokehold, and presses the gun against his temple. Peter gasps, a little breathless sound, and Quentin almost passes out then and there. It’s a heady rush, intoxicating— having someone so strong under your control just like that. 

“Get on your knees,” he hisses, jamming his heel into the back of Peter’s leg. Peter goes down willingly, his hands above his head. Quentin’s honestly surprised— he expected much more of a fight— so much so that he’s got drones on standby waiting to turn Peter’s little friends into Swiss cheese. Huh.

Peter leans back, glancing up at him through the curls that have fallen into his face, his brown eyes filled with anger. Of course. It’s never easy with this kid. Peter moves to snatch the gun out of his hand, but Quentin’s only slightly surprised. 

The defiance makes something dark flare in his gut, and before he knows it, he’s pulling the trigger. 

He might hear the sound of bone splintering, maybe the sound of blood splattering on the ground— but he definitely hears the scream that Peter lets loose, high and wailing. There’s a _lot_ of blood. More than he expected, actually. Peter’s cradling his wrist with his opposite hand, then clenching down on it to try and stop the bleeding, his face pale from pain and panic. 

It’s not a fatal wound, obviously. Just a bullet through the wrist to get him to settle down. It’ll heal soon enough, in typical Spider-Man fashion.

Peter starts to cry, so soft that Quentin barely notices it over the ringing in his ears. It’s like he’s trying his best to be strong, and failing miserably. His bottom lip is tugged right between his teeth— his tears sliding down his red cheeks. There’s a splatter of blood under his left eye. “Peter,” he murmurs, and the resulting look of fear on the boy’s face is just _priceless._ Quentin’s dick gives an involuntary twitch, and then, yeah, he’s got an idea. It just might be his best idea yet.

“Peter,” he repeats, tilting his head down to look at the crumpled boy at his feet. “I think I want you to suck my dick.” It’s not going to be easy to convince him, but Quentin’s never been a quitter.

Peter’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head, curls smacking against his face. “No. No, that’s— that’s gross, you’re _gross_!”

Quentin looks at the gun in his hand, and Peter follows his gaze, swallowing nervously. “You know,” he says, almost conversationally. “You’re not the only one being held at gunpoint. EDITH?”

EDITH broadcasts a snippet of his friends’ screams, just a few seconds, but it’s enough. Peter scrambles forward, grabbing onto Quentin’s leg with both hands, smearing blood across the fabric of his motion-capture suit. “It’s not real,” he insists, but he doesn’t seem fully convinced. “You’re just trying to trick me again!”

Quentin raises an eyebrow. “Is that really a risk you want to take?” Peter doesn’t say anything, somehow still defiant, even in his current situation. How hard is it for him to understand that Quentin has the upper hand now? “I think I’ll start with your little girlfriend— MJ, right?”

Peter freezes, his expression betraying his previous confidence. That seems to have gotten through his thick skull. He fists his good hand in Quentin’s pant leg, clutching at him so hard that he’ll probably leave bruises. “Call off the drones, Beck— please—“

He’s cute like this— whining and groveling, the complete opposite of his silly little superhero persona. Just a kid. A kid who, apparently, doesn’t understand what’s at stake here.

He made himself pretty clear. It’s not that hard to understand. “No, I don’t think I will, actually. EDITH, honey, get ready to fire at the targets.”

“Beck, _please_.” Peter presses his face into his leg. “I’ll— I’ll do what you want, just call them off!”

That’s more like it. “Ask me.”

Peter flushes, shaking his head slowly. “Don’t make me— I already said I’d do what you wanted—“

Quentin raises an unimpressed eyebrow. If Peter wants to do this the hard way, they can do it the hard way. “Okay, EDITH—“

“Please can I— can I suck your dick?” Peter’s even redder than before, his eyes trained on the ground and pointedly not making eye contact. “I want to— I want to suck your dick, please.”

“Good boy,” he hums. “EDITH, call off the drones.”

There’s a moment where neither of them move, Peter breathing heavily through his nose, his wrist still bleeding onto his suit and the floor.

”Any day now, sweetheart.”

Peter hesitates for a moment, before reaching for the zipper of his suit, his one hand scrabbling against the material and trying to tug it down. Had it been someone else, Quentin might have helped, so they could get this show on the road. But it’s Peter Parker, who’s scrunching up his face in concentration, looking almost illegally adorable. He’s fine with letting him struggle, drawing out the whole spectacle.

After a short eternity, Peter finally manages to pull down his zipper far enough to tug his cock out. 

He’s already half-hard, truth be told— the smell of blood and the boy on his knees in front of him are more than enough to get him going. Peter gives his dick a hesitant pump, the friction of his (mostly) dry skin making Quentin shiver. There’s a little bit of blood on his palm that eases the slide, though.

“I’ve never done this before, um,” he says, blinking up at Quentin. There’s a surprising softness, a vulnerability to his voice that makes it feel like he’s an eager teenager about to lose his virginity— not a superhero being blackmailed and held at gunpoint. _His virginity._ Quentin would give his right arm to fuck Peter silly, no doubt about it. He’d be so sweet, begging him to stop, whining about how big he feels. But that’s not an option, not right now, so he’ll settle for the kid’s mouth instead.

Peter opens up for him, his mouth all plush and wet. Quentin slips a finger inside, before he gets the chance to take his dick. He just wants to feel it, running his fingertip along the velvet-softness of Peter’s tongue. The kid doesn’t do a particularly good job of sucking on his finger, but he manages to get it nice and wet, slipping out of him with a slick, lewd _pop_.

Once his mouth is empty again, Peter tentatively sinks down on the head of his dick. It’s infinitely better than having his finger in him. He feels as soft and sweet on the inside as he looks on the outside. If he’s being honest, Quentin could probably come from just this, but he wants more.

 _Much_ more.

“First time? I’ll help you,” he says, before sinking a hand into Peter’s unruly curls and tugging _hard_. Before he gets the chance to react, Quentin shoves him further onto his dick, muffling any complaints. Peter gags around him, his throat fluttering and convulsing, and it takes every ounce of self-control for Quentin to not cant his hips into the wet heat of him. “Feels so fucking good.” Peter tries to pull away, pushing weakly on his thighs, but Quentin just slides the gun along his jawline and he goes stock still, his eyes wide and watering.

Quentin tugs on his hair, drawing him back off his dick and pulling him back in. Peter sobs around him— which feels unexpectedly good. He pushes the gun against his temple again and Peter sobs harder. 

It’s a gorgeous sight— Peter’s thin lips stretched around him, his eyelashes clumped together with unshed tears, drool running down his chin. He’s on his knees, his thighs parted, and Quentin notes something incredibly interesting. The Spider-Man suit leaves nothing to the imagination, the outline of his cute little cock straining against the fabric, a dead giveaway that Quentin’s not the only one having fun. He shivers, his grip tightening on Peter’s curls.

“Do you like choking on my cock, sweetheart?”

Peter blinks up at him with red-rimmed eyes, before shaking his head as best he can with a mouthful of his dick.

It’s not necessarily a challenge, but he’ll treat it like it is. Quentin sinks in deeper, fucking his mouth in short, sharp thrusts that have Peter wobbling unsteadily on his knees. He doesn’t let up, even when the kid starts retching and smacking both fists against his thighs.

He feels another spasm in Peter’s throat, stronger than before, followed by a hot gush of fluid around his dick. Vomit. Puke. _Barf._

“Jesus, Peter!” He tugs him off, maybe a bit too forcibly. Peter falls onto his back, coughing into his sticky hand and wiping at his mouth. His legs are splayed open in a way that’s a weird combination of innocent and completely slutty, which seems to be his specialty. His face is slick with an abundance of his own fluids, and probably a whole lot of Quentin’s precum. It’s not his fault, obviously— Quentin was the one fucking his throat like his life depended on it. For some reason, though, the kid looks embarrassed, _ashamed_.

Peter’s red-faced and gasping for breath, his mouth parted in an enticing o-shape that just makes Quentin want to be back inside him, vomit or not. And as if that weren’t appealing enough, his eyes are unfocused, a dazed look on his face— probably as a result of all the abuse his mouth has gone through. What a little _slut._

Quentin shakes his head, Peter’s unfocused eyes following his movements. “Oh honey,” he sighs. “You can’t even suck cock right— some protégé you are.” They’re empty words for the most part. Quentin doesn’t actually expect him to suck dick like a pro, and he’s perfectly fine with fucking his throat. Peter seems to take it personally though. He blinks away tears, whining high in his throat before getting back onto his knees and shuffling forward. 

The protégé card always works with this kid— thank you, Tony Stark.

Peter takes him in hand, tentatively running his tongue along the slit of his dick before sliding forward to take in the tip, sucking hesitantly. His tongue— that fucking soft, wet, _perfect_ tongue of his— laves at the underside of his dick. Quentin’s just about ready to sing his praises when he stops, only a little bit past his head. He looks down at Peter, who stares blankly up at him with those doe eyes. It takes him a minute to connect the dots, but when he does, he almost comes on the spot. 

Peter, the perfect little slut, sits still, waiting for him to fuck his throat. Waiting for him to _use_ him.

“God, _kid_ , I hope someone looks up here and sees you like this— fuck.” Peter flushes again, but still doesn’t move, uncharacteristically obedient for once. Quentin takes a moment to say a prayer to whatever benevolent god dropped such a perfect gift into his lap, before pulling back and slamming into Peter’s throat, _hard_. He grabs a handful of his hair again, setting a punishing pace as he thrusts his hips into the cloying warmth and wetness of Peter’s throat.

Peter’s hands come up to his thighs again, but he doesn’t try to push him away. Quentin might even say that he’s pulling him in closer.

“Fuck, Pete,” he moans, looking down at the boy at his feet— at his mercy. Peter’s eyes are glazed over, and he blinks confusedly up at him. Quentin bets that, if he put the gun away and called off all the drones, Peter would stay right where he is. Would _want_ to stay where he is, where he belongs, choking on Quentin’s cock.

His orgasm knocks the wind out of his lungs, and he stumbles forward, managing to stop himself from falling over thanks to Peter’s hands. Quentin’s own hands aren’t as useful, because he accidentally tightens his fingers around the trigger, sending another bullet whizzing past Peter’s head. Peter, who startles, lurching forward onto his dick and sputtering on his cum.

Quentin manages to pull out just in time for the final spurts to paint Peter’s cute face in white. If you ask him, that’s how he was meant to look.

Quentin tucks himself back into his suit, pulling the zipper back up— all evidence of their little escapade gone. Well, except for the blood on his legs. Peter, on the other hand, looks absolutely wrecked, his hair sticking up from all the pulling, his face messy and wet. The contrast gives him a sick thrill.

Peter licks his lips, either consciously or subconsciously, looking up at him through his sticky lashes. “Did I— was it good?” His voice is shot to hell, and Quentin feels pride well up in his chest. _He_ did that.

“Yeah, yeah. Jesus Christ, kid.” He chuckles breathlessly, adjusting his grip on the gun. He wishes he had more stamina, just to keep Peter gagging, keep that mouth sucking on something like it was meant to.

Oh. An idea. A bad one, but an idea nonetheless.

He grabs Peter by the chin with his free hand, Peter gasping in surprise and opening that wet mouth again— wide enough for him to slide the barrel of his gun inside. Peter’s eyes widen in fear, suddenly aware of his situation, but he doesn’t move away. He relaxes his throat, lets Quentin thrust it in deeper.

_Holy shit._

He builds up a rhythm, harsh thrusts as far back inside Peter as he can go. The clack of metal against teeth, the desperate whines from the boy at his feet— everything a perfectly arranged symphony. It’s music to his ears.

Quentin flicks his eyes back down. Peter’s got his eyes closed, humming around the length of the gun. That’s not the best part, though. He’s still hard, maybe even harder than he was when he was when he was sucking dick. 

There’s a wet patch on his crotch, his dick leaking through the fabric of his suit. Quentin nudges the tip of his shoe against the outline of his cock.

“What a little slut,” he notes, not even trying to conceal the smugness in his voice. “Getting off from sucking my gun.”

Peter’s shaking like a leaf, but he doesn’t protest, his eyes still screwed firmly shut. He tilts his head slightly, letting the gun sink deeper inside him. Hollows his cheeks, sucks harder.

And just like that, he has another idea. Not even an idea— an epiphany.

He pulls the gun out of Peter’s mouth, Peter immediately coughing up globs of spit and cum. He presses his face into Quentin’s thigh again, mouth parted and wet against the fabric. “Mr. Beck,” he begs, but Quentin’s not even sure what it is he’s asking for. 

He fiddles with the gun, before tugging Peter’s head back and sliding it back into his mouth before he gets the chance to elaborate. As much as he likes hearing Peter whine and beg, he likes him silent too. 

Or, well, silent— save for his gagging and humming and slurping.

He runs a hand through Peter’s curls, his touch less aggressive than before. They’re soft, despite how messy they look, and they’re the perfect length for pulling on. Quentin absentmindedly drags his nails along his scalp, scratching him like a pet. 

Peter must like the feeling, because it elicits a genuine, debauched moan from him. He ruts against Quentin’s foot, moving in sloppy little circles that make Quentin’s dick give a weak twitch.

“Do you want to come?” His voice is saccharine sweet, edging on manic. He didn’t expect the boy beneath him to be waiting for his permission, and _yet._

Peter sobs around the gun, weakly nodding his head. 

Quentin hums thoughtfully. “Okay, honey— come.”

Peter blinks up at him in confusion. Before he can react, Quentin cocks the gun and pulls the trigger.

_Click._

Peter shakes as he comes, sliding off the gun and tipping forward. He muffles his sounds against Quentin’s thigh, little whimpers and moans, curses, and his personal favorite— _Mr. Beck, Mr. Beck!_ He clings to his leg, practically humping his foot as he rides out his orgasm. 

He’d taken the bullets out of the gun, obviously— emptied out the magazine— but Peter was probably too out of it to notice. The euphoria from not dying is probably one hell of a drug, though. He runs his hand through Peter’s hair one last time, before the teenager finally slumps over on the ground, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. His lips are red and raw, and there’s cum drying on his face. He’s got a pretty sizable wet spot on the crotch of his suit, and Quentin feels proud knowing it’s because of him.

If Peter looks _this_ fucked out just from dry-humping his foot, he can only imagine how he’ll look when he actually fucks his brains out.

For now, though, all he can do is imagine. Fury’s men bust down the door, shooting down drones like they’re nothing but paper targets. _Curtain call._

He doesn’t try to resist when they pin him to the ground, snatching the glasses off his face. His fun had to end, eventually. Fury barks something at him, but he’s too blissed out from coming— from destroying Peter Parker— to even care. Whatever he’s saying probably won’t matter, since he’ll definitely break out of prison, sooner or later.

They’re all too focused on him to take care of Peter, who’s still slumped against the floor, completely dazed. It’s a pretty picture— perfect, pliant Peter Parker. He manages to make eye contact with him, his usually bright brown eyes now vacant and unseeing.

Quentin expected him to do something, to get up and be the hero again. But all he does is lick his lips again, catching a bit of Quentin’s cum on his tongue. His eyes flutter shut.

 _Yeah,_ Quentin thinks, _I’ll definitely be back._

**Author's Note:**

> spencer said this was insanely good and i cried
> 
> also this idea came to me from a line in an eric andre skit where he’s trying to get free gasoline so he can drink it
> 
> send me prompts/talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/piagnucolares) about beckpeter please i made a twitter just for that thanks


End file.
